


Dangerous Curves

by mydogwatson



Series: Postcard Tales II [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, John is wise, M/M, Sherlock is a sweet idiot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-16 17:03:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7276453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The time has come to act.  If only he can find the words before it is too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dangerous Curves

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry this is a bit late posting, but RL in the form of a migraine slowed me down. Hope I didn't miss anything important.
> 
> Thanks to all for reading, kudos, and lovely comments.

Sherlock had a plan.

Sometimes, of course, his plans went awry, which could be disastrous. [Not the moment to start thinking about rooftops or badly botched reunions or…well, a lot of things, actually.] This time, however, with this plan, there was no room for error. If this evening went awry, there would be nothing left. Life would be even worse than it had been during those dreadful years he was away, when he was alone, and frightened more often than he ever admitted even to himself. At least then he’d still had hope.

There had been no hope, of course, on the day he stood next to his best friend and watched him marry someone else. Which was a ridiculous way of phrasing it, Sherlock knew. Those words implied that there had been some sort of competition which Mary Morstan---or whatever her real name was--- had won. There had never been any contest at all.

And yet.

It was all those ‘and yet’ moments that kept Sherlock, if not hopeful, at least…not hopeless. He and John had a history and whenever Sherlock visited the cosy attic room where he kept all of those memories safely stored, he could not help but think that perhaps, just maybe, he was not completely wrong.

That first night at Angelo’s.

The words of praise that fell so easily from John’s lips.

The many times they gazed [yes, that was the right word] into one another’s eyes.

The way John took such care of him, even in the face of disparagement and mockery.

There had to be a reason why none of the women before Mary had stayed around for very long. Why John was always so willing to leave a date to chase after Sherlock.

The way John grieved when Sherlock ‘died.’

And how he forgave him for the lie.

The stag party.

Mrs Hudson always thought it was sweet, if a bit sad, the way he kept his copies of the wedding pictures and often looked at them. But there was a reason for that, one that had nothing to do with sentiment. It was factual, not emotional. In those photographs, he could compare the way John looked at Mary with the way he looked at Sherlock. Even on that day, the disparity was so blatant that he couldn’t believe that the whole world [including that woman] didn’t see it. Or maybe the world did and it was only John who was wilfully blind.

It could not be forgotten, either, that John had come back home in the end. He was a little bit sad, of course, though not as much as might have been expected, more than a little angry and slightly lost, naturally enough. But obviously turning to Sherlock to save him again.

Which Sherlock had done, most willingly. And so now here they were, because Sherlock had decided that continuing on as they were was simply untenable. Although it was at least as terrifying as jumping from a tall building, even with a plan, Sherlock had decided that it was time to reveal his feelings, although he was aware of how improbable that sounded. Both that he had feelings and that he was now prepared to reveal them. But it was time to tell John the truth.

Which was?

That Sherlock Holmes was quite possibly in love with his flatmate and best friend, John Watson. Probably in love. 

So: the Plan.

Despite what every one of his acquaintances, including John no doubt, probably thought, Sherlock did understand how this kind of thing worked. To that end, he had made reservations for dinner at this restaurant, which was nice enough for the occasion, but not so fancy as to make John uncomfortable. He’d made sure they had a quiet corner to themselves and a nice bottle of a wine that John liked very much, but rarely had because of the cost. The itinerary called for Sherlock to pick the perfect moment over the meal to suggest to John that perhaps they might explore the possibility of expanding the parameters of their relationship.

Hopefully, when the moment came, he thought, the words he used would sound somewhat less…stilted? Pompous? Mycroftian?

_John, I would like very much to shag you, if you have no objections. In addition to that, I think that I might love you. A ridiculous amount, in fact._

Well, perhaps not quite that un-Mycroftian.

But the meal had started to wind down and that perfect moment never arrived.

And now it had all turned to shite.

John, who had certainly seemed to be enjoying himself and was apparently feeling expansive, decided that they needed some brandy to complete the evening. Rather than trust the waiter, he decided to go to the bar himself to choose a perfect bottle.

Against his will, Sherlock watched it happen. John walked up to the curved mahogany bar and leant against it, waiting for the bartender’s attention. Sherlock actually noticed the woman before John did. She was sitting right next to him, in a red dress that hugged her ample breasts in a calculated way. Long blonde curls tumbled down over pale shoulders and a torso that tapered to a small waist.

John ordered two brandies and then the woman spoke to him, smiling brightly. Of course John replied, giving her a smile of his own. That had been five minutes and twenty seconds ago. Two brandies sat forgotten on the bar as they continued to talk.

Sherlock knew too well how this was going to go. The only question was why had he ever thought it might be different. He was a fool, an idiot, and all he could think of was what his brother would say if he ever found out about this whole misadventure. After a moment, Sherlock raised his hand to summon the waiter with the bill. With luck, he could pay and get out before John came back to make his excuses.

But since this was so clearly not his lucky night, there was still no sign of the bill when John suddenly appeared and set two snifters down on the table. “Sorry about that,” he said, sitting. “But she---”

“No apology necessary,” Sherlock said breezily. “In fact, I just got a text. Lestrade needs me. So you go and enjoy the rest of your evening.”

John looked bewildered. “Oh, well, if we have a case…”

Sherlock finally grabbed the check from the waiter, glanced at it and threw some notes down onto the table. “Don’t bother, John, I can see you have other priorities.”

“Honestly, Sherlock,” he said. “I thought this evening was going to go quite differently.”

“Yes, well, you didn’t expect to get lucky, right?” Without waiting for an answer, Sherlock headed for the coat check, grabbed his Belstaff, and was through the door before John caught up with him, grabbing his arm to make him stop.

“Sherlock, dammit, what are you...?”

Sherlock sneered. “Just a word of advice, though. You might want to give it a little time before you move in or marry her. Just in case, you know? Although I suppose the odds of another assassin latching onto you are slim.”

John just stared at him and then glanced back towards to restaurant. “Oh.” Then, improbably, he began to laugh. “You idiot,” he said, sounding fond. The way John always sounded.

John never really laughed at him, not in the way others did and there was nothing cruel or mocking in the sound now. If anything, there was only a hint of sadness. Sherlock tried to pull away, but Captain Watson had a tight hold on him.

“You know, Sherlock,” he said conversationally, “I actually _was_ hoping to get lucky tonight.”

Sherlock blinked. “So glad I could provide the opportunity,” he said in a voice as icy as he could make it.

There was a pause during which he could not read John’s face at all.

“I might regret saying this,” John murmured at last. “But it’s time, I think.”

“Time for what?”

John took a deep breath. “To say that the one I was hoping to get lucky with tonight was not that woman. Who, by the way, is the wife of a former patient. Her husband is a solicitor who was running late for their dinner. I was being polite. Do you want to know who I was hoping to ‘get lucky’ with?”

Sherlock just looked at him, unable to answer that question.

John sighed and shook his head. “It was you, you enormous berk. I thought that just maybe you had finally worked your way around to telling me…well to telling me that you might fancy me. Do you fancy me, Sherlock?”

Sherlock was completely unaware of what he was going to say until the words came out. “John, I would like very much to shag you, if you have no objections. In addition to that, I think I might love you. A ridiculous amount, in fact.”

And he certainly hadn’t meant to say that.

But then John smiled at him, slowly and gently, and Sherlock realised that everything was fine. Better than fine.

John stretched upwards and kissed Sherlock for the first time. It was just the kind of kiss he’d always thought John would give him. Meaning perfect. Then, instead of saying anything else, John actually raised his arm and managed to summon a cab. “Let’s go home,” he murmured, pushing Sherlock in first.

Sherlock sat back in the seat, his thigh pressed against John’s, and felt just a tiny bit smug.

He loved it when a plan came together.

**Author's Note:**

> Title From: Dangerous Curves by Peter Cheyney


End file.
